


delivery man said fuck work

by judda



Category: One Piece
Genre: Class Differences, M/M, New York City
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 08:14:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16719678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judda/pseuds/judda
Summary: on most days; Kid's just a delivery guy on a bike. New York sucks his soul dry. enter Law





	delivery man said fuck work

The summers have Kid drenched in sweat while the winters make his teeth clatter to the tune of the shudders running through his body. Kid's grateful for the few mild weeks between those seasons. Weeks in which a pullover and a windbreaker are enough to keep him warm.

But the day is turning into night and the folks are leaving for home, crawling out of their offices and entering the nightlife. Which meant: rush hours. Which ensured to make Kid's shit paid job as difficult as possible. There isn't a lot of time for Kid to appreciate the fall as he pedals through the streets like a mad man, the music and clattering from restaurants and bars and whatnots topped by the angry honking and hollering of the rush hour.

Good evening, New York City, baby.

If Kid hates anything about this job the most, it’s definitely this part. And the late hours. And the low pay. Oh, his fucking asshat of a boss.

The irritation fuels Kid as he pushes onto the pedals roughly a few last times before stopping at the entry of one of those expensive looking hotels; large, with high windows glowing in a obnoxious champaign. He swing off his bike and grabs the bags off the basket.

The guy in front of the double winged door - a man larger than Kid and with an even meaner mug - gives Kid a curt nod as he makes his dally way into the bright building. There's already sweat accumulating underneath Kid's uniform cap.

Kid gives the posh lady behind the counter the information she requires and she replies sweetly with the information Kid needs for his delivery to reach its customer.

“Hey, hold the door!”

A young girl in uniform and with a similar fatigued expression to Kid's perks up and holds out her arm to stop the delivery elevator from closing.

With a huff, Kid seemingly jumps into the little elevator, much smaller and cheaper than the ones for the guests and important people. After all, they’re just delivering the food.

Kid thanks the girl and pushes the button for the 11th floor first. There are 3 deliveries for this building; Kid would be working his way up. From rags to the 64th floor of this over-fucking-priced apartment building. Blow out all that money for one of those unaffordable flats with their high-end kitchens, just to call the poor delivery guy over for a cheap meal. Shit's beyond Kid's comprehension.

Everything went smoothly until he stands waiting on the last costumer’s door. After having rung the bell twice, that is. Twice!

Peeved crazy and hot headed as he is, Kid pushes the button of the bell hard and long. The ringin is satisfying and almost turns Kid's snarl into a grin. He takes his finger off the bell as he hears the familiare click of a door unlocking.

The door swings open harshly and there's this lean guy, white collar shirt half tucked in and wrinkled, slept in trousers and dried drool on the corners of his mouth.

The costumer’s speech is slurred and throaty as he apologizes and inquiries. “Sorry ‘bout that, gimme a min'.”

Kid's looking down at disheveled dark hair, the spin and flow of his locks strangely comforting. There's distance clattering and fumbling of something out of Kid's view. Kid barely remembers to blink and close his mouth.

Realizing that he was just now talked to, Kid replies somewhat breathlessly, “don't stress.”

Kid's eyes flicker from the hair to dark hands with darker ink fumbling with a small purse. In the few seconds which are permitted to him, his eyes shamelessly eat up the man. Hot and disheveled; not a hot mess, though. Additionally, Kid notes the oddly dimmed room, dark and daunting. Kinda matches the DEATH tats.

“Keep the change.”

Kid tries not to go for awkward skin contact but at the sight of Kid's hand grabbing the cash, the man's slender finger tighten around the bills and linger. The blood rushing to Kid’s ears is hot and muffling. It's either the various rings or the nail polish which make warm eyes glistening with intrigue perk up from underneath the bedhead.

And that's the final blow, really. Kid can't comprehend that face; nor those eyes, for that matter. There’s the visceral urge to whistle and wail but that would be damn inappropriate, no? Instead Kid’s jaw tightens in an attempt to keep his thrill in check. Oh, sweet restraint.

The corner of the guy's mouth quirk up, too suddenly for Kid's poor heart. “Heh, you're mean looking,” he points out kindly, his lips pouted mischievously as if simply saying those words in that silky voice wouldn't be enough.

Kid pulls the money into his hand as he holds the eye contact, the bag of chinese takeaway being passed in exchange.

The feeling of being judged based on his looks doesn't sit well with Kid. For an instance, he feels irritated. There's no denying the factual, though; Kid doesn't look inviting.

“And you look like shit.”

Tha man snorts and wipes his free hand over his washed face. “Huh, that bad?”

With a thoughtful humming Kid puts the money away and gives the guy a swift one over. At least he tries to make it seem that way and not like he was trying to check him out or anything. Kid shrugs with a sceptical noise in his throat.

“Seen worse,” he argues at last.

“That's reassuring,” he replies, followed by a sorry smile and a tart, “thanks for the delivery.”

“You're welcome.” If Kid doesn’t leave in the next 10 seconds, he’s going to do something stupid. “Have a good evening.”

“Don't get hit by a car.”

The doors closed as Kid turns to leave and the clicking, which cuts off that moment just now from the rest of Kid's life in a swift, clean motion, has no business being that loud. Kid feels electrocuted. Like those times he got tased, just kinda worse. The urge to punch a wall spreads inside his guts like wildfire. He remembers the breathing techniques and thinks of the zeroes of the bill for the repairs of a wall like this.

 

On his way back, Kid imagines what Trafalgar's evening would look like. Which isn’t creepy at all, really. Kid feels wistful as he continues his work with barely anything out of the ordinary happening. He swears at men in suits and taxi drivers who bitch at him for riding too recklessly through the streets. The customers who complain that their food took too fucking long are just the other side of the damn coin. It's you against all of New York. Really.

 

It's almost 4AM when Kid throws his cap onto the wet asphalt of the dirty back alley, an desperate groan leaving his throat.

Killer, sitting on the edge of the stairs that are kept dry by the little ceiling, watches Kid try to collect himself. Eventually, he bends over to pick up the damp cap. “Hell's the problem now?”

“Thanks for being so concerned, Killer.”

“Stop being a stingy baby.” Killer takes a deep drag from his last cigarette. “What's up, Kid?”

“This,” Kid begins, sighing deeply, face turned towards the rumbling sky. “This shit sucks, man,” he says finally. “It's like rats in a cage.”

Understanding wholly, Killer takes his last drag. “I know.”

They have to walk home in the pouring rain and wake up to an early shift at the workshop.

 

On one very ordinary workday day, Killer fixes Kid with a suspicious frown.

“Why the hell do you insist on doing the delivery service so often lately?” After all delivery and kitchen pay the same shit money.

Kid mindlessly continues to stuff the packages into the basket, knuckles turned a bruised pink. “Whatchu mean?”

Leaning over the counter between them, Killer squints even sharper. “Kid,” he says in a warning manner.

Named man groans and rolls his eyes. “Get off my dick, Killer. I ain't planning anything.”

“But you're trying something. I'm just gonna tell it to you now instead of later when you’re hurt; it's fruitless.”

“You fruitless.”

They laugh and Killer squeezes Kid's shoulder meaningfully a last time before he disappears back into the kitchen, smelling of burnt oil and spices.

Kid watches Killer back disappear and dwells on his words shortly. No, Kid isn’t really a green thumb kinda man. 

 

The bearable fall weather turns into the kind of coldness that sucks the air dry and crystallizes the wetness on car windows in pretty, pointless patterns.

Basically, it's cold as bricks. With hurried steps Kid walks past a shop displaying those distressingly expensive winter jackets and wonders how long he'd have to put money aside to get himself and Killer one.

Kid walks past and into that one specific building several times but never does he catch the star of his pondering hours spent looking through his busted window into the alley full of shit and piss.

Eventually, they face off again. This time, Kid isn't borderline hyperventilating. But the guy, Trafalgar Law- Kid feels weird about even thinking the name since he never introduced himself (like a mild violation of privacy). Anyways, the guy looks even worse. The shadows beneath his wan eyes turned a few tones darker since last time, the face is sickly deprived of its warmth and the dark hair sticks to his skin like spilled ink. It isn’t pretty per se, but Kid feels his chest twitch nevertheless.

Kid hands over the bag after he had received the money from a trembling hand.

“This is your 19th delivery. The next one gets you a drink for free.” It's a wonder he didn't miss this opportunity as well. Kid was infamous for his awfully bad luck.

“That's nice,” he says with a face incompatible with that expression.

Forgetting they are delivery man and customer, Kid ask, “don't you know how to cook?”

That at least evokes a grin that shows a little teeth. The shorter man looks to the side in a - Kid has to blink viciously to be sure - embarrassed manner.

“No, I don't.”

“You look like shit. For real this time.” Kid just seems to be throwing restrictions after restrictions overboard.

The guy becomes livelier, his eyes glinting up at Kid with mean-spirited intent. “And you don't look a bit nicer since the last time I saw you.”

“Damn, you're rude; no manners at all,” Kid jabs.

Trafalgar’s tone is reciprocally teasing when he says, “you're acting awfully familiar.”

That statement, despite being said in a jestery manner, peeves Kid somewhat. Kid could lose his shit ass job over any complain coming his way; especially from someone like this guy.

What is this guy even; looking like a straight con-job but living in a space of price beyond Kid's imagination. This guy was so full of contradictories it made Kid's head spin.

There’s a sticky film of power imbalance draped over the whole situation. Kid pushes his cap further onto his head as he uncomfortably looks down at his shoes and back up.

“‘scuse me, sir.”

The expression on the guy's face is hilarious; maybe even worth all the inconveniences regarding their rather contrasting statuses and the conversation surrounding that matter.

Assuming this guy is actually wealthy and not some wily headed scammer. Kid doesn't suppose he would mind it much.

The guy presses his lips together and looks up rather owlishly, his adam's apple bobbing with a deep gulp. Then his face turns solemn and sore.

“I'm not gonna tell on you,” he clarifies, the dense atmosphere making him speak in a hushed tone.

Kid could simply clear up the situation but he rather not, the urge to try to lead this man astray so knee-jerk it's stupid. “Why not? You're right; I'm awfully familiar.”

“What if I don't mind?”

Kid scoffs, his tameness slowly peeled off to reveal growing vexation at the implication of working as a personal entertainer.

“That’s gonna cost extra.”

“I’m not paying for time with somebody.”

“Times money, tho’, and I’m low on both.”

Dark eyebrows twirl in confusion. “What does that even mean?”

“I don't know,” Kid confesses abruptly, “you’re crazy hot and I'm just running my mouth.” There goes the cat, huh.

The confession is met with astonishment first, then a flushed face returning the color to his skin.

Kid bites down on his lip, trying to keep the loopey grin breaking his facade at bay. “I'm sorry. Overly-familiare, I know.”

Suddenly in distress over Kid's reaction he begins waving his hand in objection, the words stumbling out of his mouth, “no, no, it's fine.” Then a groan as he presses his fingers into his eye sockets. “That's so sudden.”

“It can't be the first time you’ve heard that,” Kid scoffs, sure of the suggestion of those words.

Kid's compensated with a bashful smile that would've swept him off his feet if he wasn't already down. “I'm not good with this. Especially right now.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I’m a medic student. Midterms are incoming; I barely socialized in over a week.”

Kid makes a long impressed noise.

“Brains,” he finally says and Trafalgar Law's warm laughter fills the otherwise empty hall to the brim.

The guy was probably dazed and easy to humour because of all the caffeine up his stream but it was an accomplishment in Kid's book nonetheless.

Kid got a new sweet contact on his cracked phone, and before texting Brains for the first time, he quickly opens the chat with Killer, the excitement making his hands shake.

“Wussuuup Killaaaaa”

“Hey”

“KILLA”

The unseen message is followed by various fruit emojis.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading
> 
> inspired by  
> https://nocturnepodcast.org/stay-warm-be-careful/


End file.
